


IV. The Year We Rolled With It

by dontbefancy



Series: Allegories from Adrian--An Angel in a Red Vest extra [4]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3148664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontbefancy/pseuds/dontbefancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this Allegory from Adrian, we arrive on the scene Christmas Evening a few years into the future. Adrian is now 13 years old and a little more grown-up than we saw him last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	IV. The Year We Rolled With It

I love Christmas.

Okay, that’s probably not the most engaging way to start a story. Who _doesn’t_ love Christmas? I mean, I’m sure there are people who don’t, but if you take a nice slice of the world that celebrates the holiday and ask them, the majority are going to say yes, they love Christmas.

So, I love Christmas.

Yeah, I love getting gifts, of course, and sometimes I don’t even mind shopping for them, especially when you find that unexpected perfect thing and you know that the recipient is going to lose their sh—their _mind_ at how awesome it is. I love the lights and the decorations and the cold nipping at my nose, and that leads to Christmas carols because that’s in one of them, isn’t it? (Oh god, Papa would _kill_ me if he knew I wasn’t coming up with the right carol immediately.)

The whole thing. I love it.

But, my favorite thing about Christmas is the _us_ of it all. Every family has their own traditions, so I’m not saying ours are better, but that they’re _ours_. Some are Papa’s that have been a part of his life since he can remember. Some are Dad’s, some are Mom’s or Nana’s. But some of the best ones are just ours.

Like the tradition that _Santa_ brings my stocking into my room in the middle of the night when I’m sleeping and then I get to go through all the goodies in the morning before I go in to wake them up. It’s a win-win really. I get new stuff, they get an extra half hour to sleep.

That one started the year we moved to New York and we didn’t have a mantel to hang stockings from. I was six and already freaking out that Santa didn’t have a chimney to get to me, and Papa was freaking out because _why didn’t we get the unit with the fireplace, Blaine? We’re going to ruin him for life._

Papa tends to err on the side of drama.

Which leads me to last night.

THE CHRISTMAS SONG! I remembered! Chestnuts roasting and yuletide carols and eskimos which between you and me, I’d rather have eskimo _kisses_ but that’s not the point.

The point. Last night. Christmas Eve.

Oh. Merry Christmas.

So, another one of my favorite things about Christmas is the food. Especially the food Papa makes. And orders. He knows, as he says, “how to make the market work” for him, and he knows what markets work best for specific things. Like peanut brittle (a tradition of Dad’s) comes from We Are Nuts About Nuts in Tribeca. Yes, we can make our own. Yes, we have tried and Papa and I decided that it’s a massive pain in the butt. Besides, when you have gay dads, a store called We Are Nuts About Nuts has a really long shelf life in the humor department.

Or, spiral-sliced ham from the Ottomanelli Butcher Shoppe. The thing is big enough to feed half of Manhattan so Papa always invites his “orphan” co-workers over for Christmas dinner—but that’s another tradition I’ve come to like, too. Those people are insane. Insanely fun.

And _raunchy_. I think Papa and Dad believe those kinds of jokes still go over my head, but I’m here to tell you, they do not. And those people Papa works with? Raunchy. And hilarious.

Anyway, Papa’s food. He’s been cooking since his mom died, which means he’s been cooking for about (if I have to do math on Christmas day, it’ll only be for you people) thirty years. He knows the kitchen. He knows food. And he _knows_ baking.

And Christmas morning cinnamon rolls. You think those big obnoxious things at the mall are good cinnamon rolls? Pfft. Try Papa’s. He puts a little cardamom in the dough and in the cinnamon/brown sugar mix. You haven’t had cinnamon rolls until you’ve had Papa’s.

So, last night, he’s getting started on them. It’s always one of the last things he does Christmas Eve before they shoo me off so they can play Santa and all of that nonsense that would suck if they ever stopped. The kitchen is sounding like it does every Christmas Eve, the cabinets knocking around a bit, the stand mixer spinning for a while, and then the best part, the smack of the dough on the granite countertop as Papa starts kneading it. He could knead it in the mixer, but he likes to feel the dough in his hands. He gets almost reverent about it.

And no, this is not something I help with – not Christmas cinnamon rolls. I think it has to do with his mom, and he lets me help with so much other stuff, it’s okay.

Just so I can always help eat them.

Last night, the rhythm seemed off, even from my bedroom. The cabinets knocked around a bit. The stand mixer started spinning. And then it stopped. And then I heard Papa’s voice and the mixer started again. And it went for longer than usual, the sound getting almost irritating. About the time I was going to peek in, it stopped and I waited for that smack of the dough.

Only last night, it was a thud.

And things sort of fell apart from there. Dad went in when Papa’s voice went from whispered frustration to quiet tears.

_"Hey. Hey, hey, hey…no, no. No tears on Christmas Eve. What’s wrong?"_

_"The dough is ruined."_

I could hear Papa scrape a chair across the tile floor and sit down and that wasn’t a good sign. He wasn’t kneading anything if he was sitting down. I decided to peek in from the hall. Whoever designed this apartment had sneaky kids in mind because they never know I’m there until I’ve heard more than I should.

"Why is it ruined? It looks fine to me!"

"It’s ruined. Listen."

Papa got up and lifted the mass, plopping it on the counter again. Yeah, that didn’t sound good.

"I’m still not—"

"Just. Never mind, Blaine. It’s fine. I’ll start over, if I have enough flour which I don’t think I do because of all the baking we did and I wanted to get these rolled up and go to bed but no. No! It’s fucking Christmas Eve and the distributors from Korea just called with fourteen thousand questions about our order. You know, we couldn’t get Habotai silk from Mood or B & J right here in the city, no. We absolutely _had to_ get it directly from Korea to make sure the dye is exactly as specified even though I saw the right shade in Mood last fucking week for a third of the cost and you know, Korea will keep working through our holiday because they don’t celebrate Christmas therefore, _I_ can’t celebrate because I end up standing on the phone with these idiots trying to translate our order into Korean instead of watching my dough and Blaine, I do _not_ speak Korean!”

"No. No, you do not."

My dad is a hero _not_ because he’s a fireman but because he can listen to Papa’s meltdowns and not laugh. It’s not like he’d be laughing _at_ Papa, but it would feel that way and so he doesn’t and I honestly have no idea how because I was gnawing the inside of my mouth like it was a freaking…well, like it was an ooey gooey cinnamon roll.

"You’re patronizing me."

Okay, so Dad’s not perfect at it. He tries really hard, though.

"I—Kurt. I am not patronizing you. I’m—" Daddy kissed Papa and I could see Papa fighting back a smile. "Your crazy sort of makes me fall more and more in love with you is all."

"Glad to be of service."

"Mmm. Look, I have no idea what Korea and silk and Christmas all have to do with your dough, but they do to _you_ and…” Dad looked down as he absent-mindedly rubbed the mound and he stopped with a frown. “Babe, it really feels fine to me.”

Papa leaned over and pushed Dad’s hand away and shook his head when he touched the dough, pressing his fingers into it gently. “No, it doesn’t. It’s supposed to feel like a baby’s bottom.”

"Well." Dad kissed Papa again, disarming his ownership of the dough. "Okay. So." He pressed his fingers to it like Papa had. "It feels firm. More like _your_ bottom.”

I was afraid I broke skin on the inside of my cheek. But, Papa blushed and I hate that I think they’re so damned cute. If you tell any of my buddies I said that, I’ll deny it.

"Fine. Then roll out _my_ ass and spread cinnamon and butter all over _it_ instead.”

"Now _that_ sounds absolutely delicious.” Dad moved in for another ki—

"I can HEAR you!!" Yeah, I can only take so much.

"If you wouldn’t stand in the hallway and spy, maybe you wouldn’t hear us."

Sometimes I hate my dad. But, this isn’t one of those times. I do need to work on my ninja skills, though – that much was clear. “I probably still would. What happened, Papa?”

"I was on the phone with work too long and overworked the cinnamon roll dough in the mixer. It’ll never rise." He picked it up and plopped it down again. "It’s like a rock."

"No, it’s like your ass."

"Blaine." Papa slumped back into the chair and buried his face in his hands. "I want things to be perfect. You _know_ this. And cinnamon rolls are part of perfect and I’ve ruined them and it’s late and Santa’s going to be here soon and…”

"Papa. I—I sorta know that Santa’s not real now."

"That’s not helping." Ouch, Papa. I sat down too and decided to keep my mouth shut.

"Kurt, everything is still perfect. And, maybe they’ll still be okay after you roll them out and they sit in the fridge tonight."

"What if I can’t get them to roll?"

"I—I don’t know. But, honey, you make Christmas perfect every year. And it’s all on you because I don’t expect it from you and Adrian doesn’t expect it from you—"

And if I did, now was not the time to correct him. But, I didn’t. At least I didn’t think so.

"But, _I_ expect it of me, Blaine. I’ve been doing this since I was a kid—”

"You did that for you and your dad so it wouldn’t feel so awful without your mom there."

Papa looked up at Daddy liked he’d just shared his biggest secret. But he hadn’t – Dad knows to remember the important stuff. “And Kurt? You don’t have to do _anything_ to make our lives not awful. We’re all good. We’re together and we have a beautiful home that you make even more beautiful and we have a beautiful son who doesn’t care if he has cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning and who definitely doesn’t care if you can’t speak Korean.”

Papa had to chuckle and dared to look up to me. He was doing all of this for me – he always had.

“ _Annyeong_.”

"What? How do you—that’s _hello_ , isn’t it?”

"I listen to K-pop, remember?"

"Yes, my ears will never forgive you."

"It could be metal." I pulled off a hunk of dough and stretched it, trying to do the translucent test he taught me a few years ago and yeah. This stuff was overworked. "Papa, what if we let it rest a bit?"

Papa sighed and pulled off his own test piece finding the same thing I did. “We could try, but I’m going to lose my mind checking it every five minutes.”

"So, let’s leave the house."

"Blaine, it’s 11:30 on Christmas Eve."

"And?"

"And—"

Conceding isn’t something Papa does very often, but when he does, it’s usually worth it.

Last night was worth it. We were bundled up for the weather in no time and by the time we hit the street, we were giggling at the weirdness of it all.

The plan was to take a walk, but it was colder than any of us were in the mood for. So, we hopped the N Train down a few stops and walked to this café in Alphabet City that Dad and Papa go to when they can coordinate lunches off. They both swore it would be open, I thought they were nuts and as usual, they were right and I was eating humble pie.

Actually, I was eating an omelet. With bacon. And cheese. And an extra helping of deliciousness because I decided then and there that there was nothing better than an omelet at a rusty-assed diner at midnight on Christmas Eve.

There weren’t many people there and most of them looked a bit of a mess, but they seemed to be enjoying the warm restaurant, the pretty waitress and the hot coffee, so it wasn’t a bad Christmas Eve for them either.

Even though we ate full meals, even though it was almost 1 am before we were done, even though we had piles of Papa’s cookies and candies and hopefully cinnamon rolls back at the house, we all got dessert. Daddy got a cranberry almond pie thing, Papa got cheesecake, of course and I sucked down a slice of chocolate cake bigger than my head. Everything was perfect.

Just like Papa likes it to be.

When we started walking back, they pulled me to walk in between them and we all snuggled together, even holding hands now and then. Be quiet – we’re sort of an affectionate bunch, okay? We passed some brownstones where you could still, even at 1 am, hear carols and laughter and life. The storefronts were all shuttered and it was eerie and peaceful and beautiful. I have never, in my seven years living here, seen the city this quiet.

"Wonder what Times Square is like right now."

"Let’s find out."

So we did. And it was quiet too, still lit to its fullest. And odd. Not a ghost town, because even without all the people, you could still feel the heartbeat.

But, I wanted to go home where beauty was undefinable simply because it was _ours_.

As we rode the N Train back home, we decided that we had a new tradition. Because it felt right. And because Papa stopped worrying about his cinnamon rolls. And because sometimes the accidents in life are what make the best traditions.

When we got home, we stayed up even later rolling out the cinnamon rolls and getting cinnamon and brown sugar and even the little sprinkling of cardamom all over everything. Yep, Papa let us help, which we’re thinking is another good tradition, and even though we weren’t sure how they’d handle their second rise overnight, they handled it just fine.

They tasted better than they ever had before.


End file.
